


A Change of Plan

by emstrange



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Kings and Queens, Slow Burn, Smut, Éomer Being an Asshole, Éomer is an idiot, Éomer needs a hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:47:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26140621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emstrange/pseuds/emstrange
Summary: Princess Lothíriel had been promised to Rohan since before her conception. It never seemed a daunting prospect as she has always found Théodred to be a lighthearted and easy going soul. However after the many losses from the Ring War, Théodred is no longer Rohan's heir. What will happen when a last minute King comes face to face with a Queen that has been forever in the making?
Relationships: Lothíriel & Théodred (Tolkien), Éomer Éadig & Lothíriel, Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel, Éomer Éadig/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 57





	1. A Royal Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: One (?) swear word.
> 
> So this story is already half written and edited! The idea's just kept coming.  
> Please let me know what you think with a comment :)

Princess Lothíriel sits in her carriage and stares out at the vast sea of green grass. The journey from Dol Amroth has been uneventful thus far meaning she has had many hours to think and stew in her own worry. Her father, Prince Imrahil sits opposite, currently scratching away with a quill, unaware of his only daughters’ inner turmoil.

“Planning your escape?” He suddenly asks without glancing up from his paperwork. Maybe he isn’t so blind to her concerns after all.

“Perhaps…although it didn’t work at home…or during our stay in Minas Tirith…and don’t think I haven’t noticed the extra security around the carriage since we entered the Eastfold. But rest assured Father, I don’t really fancy being dragged back behind one of my brother’s horses. Although maybe us arriving in Rohan in such a way will disgust their King so much, he’ll send me right back where I came from.” She replies nonchalantly, causing a large sigh from her father and a giggle from her young handmaiden, Ferne, who sits next to her sewing away.

The prince shoots Ferne a disapproving look, which only causes her giggle to increase. Ferne is rather new in her role as handmaiden, having only turned 17 a few weeks ago. Without family to speak of and eager to stay with her mistress of only a few months, she agreed without pause to join the princess in her new life as Rohan’s Queen.

“Do not look at us like that, you bring this on yourself.” Lothi snaps but does elbow Ferne lightly in the side to cease her laughter, “How you can sit there writing as if nothing is going on, I have no earthly clue.”

When her father sighs again and simply shakes his head, before turning his attention back to his parchment, Lothi’s nose flares with quiet rage as she grabs the papers. Flinging them from the carriage. A loud, “OI” alerts her to the obvious fact that she has indeed hit one of their riders with it.

“Lothíriel. My dear daughter.” Imrahil begins, jumping to continue as he sees his daughter gearing up to correct him, “My _only_ daughter…do you not think this has weighed heavily on me?”

“Actually. No.” She replies quite petulantly.

Imrahil leans forward and takes his daughters hand.

“Lothi. You’ve known this day was coming for a very, very long time. You were promised as queen to Rohan long before your birth even came to be. And before now, you’ve not had issue.”

“I’ve not had issue because I knew who I would be marrying. I was allowed to meet Théodred. Many, many times. I grew to have affection for him even if it was only that of a friend. When he died…” Lothi shakes her head and tries not to think of the fallen Prince. Their marriage would not have been a love match but she would be lying if she hadn’t had hope that it one day might grow to be. He was gentle and kind. Sweet to his servants and friends alike. Never once had she feared this day. “…father I have not even set eyes on the man I am to call husband now.”

“You have met Éomer before my dove.” Her father sighs exasperatingly, causing his daughter to snatch her hand from his gentle embrace.

“As a child! We were…11 at best. And he was a brute. Loud and brash, no care for even himself. He would climb the stable roof and dare boys to follow, some of whom ended up with broken arms and legs. Yes, a fine husband that shall be.”

Imrahil sits back and smiles are his stubborn daughter.

“He is no longer 11 my dove. He is a man now, a brave and courageous man who many are proud to call king. And please remember, he mourned most of his childhood. We both know what grief can push a person to.”

Lothi closes her eyes and takes a long, deep breathe before meeting her fathers’ eye and nodding. Indeed, she does know. Losing a parent at such a young age is something a child should never have to endure. And losing both…it must have been unbearable. She was 7 when they lost her mother to fever and Lothi did not react well either.

She remembers hiding after the funeral, refusing to leave her room and eventually, when no maid or servant could braid her hair as well as her mother could, she attacked her long tresses with dressmaking scissors until only the shortest bob remained. It had taken years to return to its former length, nearing her lower back, and only now can she confidently say the braids are how they should be.

“What if he is unkind.” Lothi whispers, staring down at her hands which sit in her lap.

“My dove, I would never have you married to such a man…even though I have only briefly met him, King Aragorn assures me of his kindness. As does your cousin.”

Yes, Lothi thinks, Faramir has indeed sung his praises. She is happy in the knowledge that even when her family leaves her in Rohan, it will be but a few weeks until she sees them again at her cousins wedding. If only she’d made a push to meet Éomer at King Aragorn’s coronation, not that she attended the actual ceremony. She was of course invited and had anyone asked, she would have said she was there but no, she did not attend. Instead she walked the deserted streets with her brother Amrothos and witnessed first hand the damage that the grand city took during the war. By the time they made it back to the palace, Éomer had already left for Rohan.

Pomp and ceremony has never been something Lothi enjoyed. She was also naïvely under the impression that the marriage between her and Rohan’s heir would have died with him.

“We approach Rohan, Father!” Erichirion shouts from outside the carriage and Lothi lets out the most almighty, unladylike groan to the ceiling. Causing her handmaiden to once again giggle.

……………………………………………………………

Éomer stands on the top step of Meduseld, surveying the Dol Amroth convoy. Carriages and horses filter though the gates with Swan banners flying proudly. His stomach growls and he says a silent prayer to Béma that it refrains from doing so when he meets the royal family.

“Should have eaten your breakfast, my lord!” Scolds Alma, Meduseld’s head housekeeper. Éomer closes his eyes and tries to calm his annoyance at the opinionated woman who he knows means well. In her mid 60’s, Alma is a true woman of Rohan. She is taller than most and rather broad shouldered, with an imposing manner that makes her perfect at keeping the servants and maids of the castle in line. She also sees herself as a mother hen to all that surround her. Causing no end of stress for the newly crowned King.

“I have not had a mother in many years Alma, I do not need to be told now when to eat.” Éomer speaks through gritted teeth, causing the older woman to recoil with over the top gestures of her hands.

“Oh, as you were sir, as you were.” She scoffs and Éomer internally tries counting to 10. Something his uncle had advised many times over the years when he found his temper growing at the most inopportune moment.

“Don’t mind me. What do I know?” Alma carries on in a shrill tone, “I’ve only raised 6 strong lads and run your uncle’s household for many, many years.”

“Okay Alma…” Éomer tries to interrupt.

“Not to mention the years of keeping your sister in check…”

“Yes, Alma…”

“And don’t get me started on keeping you in line!” She laughs and Éomer spins to face her.

“Alright, Alma, I will eat once the guests are settled. Happy?”

Alma holds up her hands and takes a step back, as if giving him space was all she ever wanted to do, “Whenever you please, my lord. I am here to serve.”

Éomer turns back to the approaching convoy and unclenches his hands, not realising he had in fact made them into tight fists. Soon he is joined by his advisor Aldor, who is of similar age to Alma, and readies himself to greet the royal family.

Quickly appearing from the castle are Éomer’s Marshal’s and lifelong friends, Erkenbrand and Gamling.

“How’re you feeling?” Gamling asks his friend and gives him a sharp smack on the back when he gets no response.

“Sorry Gamling,” Éomer flusters and sweeps back his shoulder length hair for the millionth time that morning, “I am…”

“Shitting yourself?” Gamling supplies, causing Alma to scold him and his friends to laugh.

“Always did have a way with words, my friend.”

……………………………………………………………

As the carriage comes to a stop at the bottom of Meduseld’s steps, the riders begin to dismount and hand the reins over to the castle’s stable hands. Lothíriel’s brothers wait while the carriage door is opened and their father exits, extending his hand to his daughter.

Lothi steps from the carriage and takes in the area around her, adjusting to the change of light from the carriage. After her father secures her hand on his arm and Ferne rearranges her dress, they begin to ascend the many, many steps that will bring her face to face with her future husband.

……………………………………………………………

Young.

That is Éomer’s first thought upon seeing his future wife.

Young.

There may be only 5 or 6 years difference between the two but Éomer is sure that his years of riding and fighting have aged him more than the Gondorian Princess’s charmed life ever could.

“She looks but a child.” He whispers to himself and his men chuckle.

“You do know she’ll grow bigger the closer she gets right?” Erkenbrand comments with sarcasm, glancing at Gamling.

Éomer scowls at his friend but Erkenbrand is far from intimidated.

“She’s very beautiful.” Gamling offers, hoping to lift the king’s spirits.

“Yes. A true Princess of Gondor. How ever, shall she fare?” Éomer replies cynically and moves forward with his advisor as the royal family approaches them. He waits while Aldor completes the introductions and notices that Lothíriel does not raise her eyes from the ground until he bows and takes her hand to kiss.

“Princess Lothíriel, sincerest welcomes to Rohan and Meduseld, a place I hope you’ll call home with happiness.” He says, repeating the words Aldor had told him to say.

……………………………………………………………

Lothíriel finally raises her eyes to take in the man she will call husband from tomorrow. He’s taller than Théodred she notes and his hair lighter. His eyes a deep hazel and shoulders broad. Attractive but with a perpetually furrowed brow.

“I thank you for your greeting, my lord. Rohan is as beautiful as I remember. I look forward to exploring my new home and learning of how best to serve my people.” Lothi sings beautifully and curtseys with experienced ease.

“May I please introduce you to the head of my household, Alma, and my Marshal’s Erkenbrand and Gamling.”

After the aforementioned curtseys and bows to their future queen, Aldor instructs Alma to show the princess and her ladies in waiting to her suite, while the men will adjourn to discuss tomorrows events. Heaven forbid she gets to speak with the man they are expecting her to breed with, Lothi thinks with scorn.

When reaching the suite, Lothíriel takes note of all the effort Alma and her staff have put into making the space warm and inviting. Lavender, her favourite smell, wafts from the vases around the room and her favourite colour, burgundy, is seen in small accents of all the decorations.

“Alma, if I may call you so, this is a beautiful room.” Lothi begins and takes Alma’s hand in hers, “Please extend my thanks to your staff and know how appreciative I am for all the work you have put in.”

Alma appears taken aback by the young princess’s mature attitude and Lothi is sure she see’s tears in the housekeepers’ eyes.

“I thank you for your words my lady, please let me know if you’re in need of anything at all.” Alma replies quietly, keeping her voice even. With a polite curtsy, Lothi is left with her handmaiden and the rest of her ladies.

She watches everyone run around the room, unpacking all her things, before collapsing face first onto her large fourposter bed and groaning.

Ferne sits on the edge of the bed and pats her mistresses back gently.

“He’s very handsome.” She says without caution and has her name hissed by one of the older women.

“The furrow in his brow is as big as the Riddermark itself!” Lothi shouts into the pillow, making her handmaiden laugh.

“Perhaps…well…” Ferne begins but trails off when she gets another glare from the women around her. Lothi turns her face from the pillow to look at her.

“What?” Lothi asks but notices her friends reticence at speaking freely. She looks around and politely asks the older women to give them some time alone.

“You mustn’t feel intimidated by them Ferne. I’ve asked you to stay with me for a reason. You’re my friend…and they’re women who still think I should be silent until spoken to.” She says smiling and sitting up on the bed, crossing her legs and getting comfortable. Ferne mirrors her stance.

“I was just going to say…maybe there’s a certain something that can wipe the furrow from his brow…” Ferne says with clear innuendo and a sly smile.

Lothíriel smiles sadly at her friend and all of a sudden begins to cry.

“Lothi no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you…I was just trying to make you laugh! Oh no.” Ferne smacks her hands to her cheeks and the worry on her face is what stops Lothi’s tears from falling.

“It’s okay Ferne, honestly it’s okay. I’m being silly.” She says, regaining the composure her noble upbringing has taught her. In that moment, seeing her young friend struggle with the prospect of upsetting her, Lothi decides against sharing her secret.

The problem is, how much longer can she keep it to herself?


	2. A Royal Kerfuffle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! Life and all that.  
> Please let me know what you think :)

“No. Absolutely not. We cannot forgo one of our oldest traditions because, because you find it…” Elphir growls, stalking around the council chamber, looking as if a foul odour has seeped into the room. Imrahil mirrors Éomer’s exasperation as both sit rubbing their foreheads, trying to stave off an inevitable headache.

Imrahil knew his sons wouldn’t make the last-minute preparations easy. Having three grown men with vastly different beliefs and priorities was always going to be a problem. Elphir always has put a lot of stock in traditions and propriety, unlike the younger two. Imrahil puts that down to the stress of always knowing that one day, Elphir himself will be the head of house Dol Amroth and in charge of keeping the family legacy intact. A very large responsibility for any one person.

Being the middle brother meant that Erchirion has many of the same responsibilities as his elder brother, but without the reward of status or ability to make change. If Elphir ever feels that his brother is reaching above his station, ‘the heir and the spare’ is a term he has no fear of using to push him back down. Causing no end of stress for their father.

“Needless, brother. Needless, vulgar and incredibly insulting.” Amrothos barks at his eldest sibling. As the youngest, Amrothos has always enjoyed the lack of duty which his older brothers have to partake in. He finds the traditions and rules associated with being royal very stifling and as he is the closest with their sister, he tasks himself with keeping Elphir in check and won’t allow him to embarrass her. Well, he’ll do his very best.

It’s moments like these Imrahil can only think of his late wife and how she’d excel in keep them in line.

“Sit. Down.” Imrahil growls to his eldest son and Éomer can’t help but lock eyes with his advisor. Begging for help. After the introductions, his Marshel’s left to tend to their duties and even though the room is full of people, he still feels completely alone.

Alone and listening to his future in-laws discussing his wedding night…

“My lord, Rohan does not feel the need to be so open with one’s….status.” Aldor supplies, trying desperately to calm the young Prince. And failing.

“My sister is a Princess. She is expected to prove her virginity and will do so because of that expectation AND her obligation to her people.” Elphir responds, waving his hands around.

“To display to the people of Rohan that the Queen was in fact a virgin before marriage would be seen as highly…irregular. With all due respect, my lord, we are not in Gondor my lord.” Aldor finishes but it does very little to smother Elphir’s insistence.

“No, we are not. But the King and my sister WILL adhere to the traditions of our people. I will not have some nattering servants spreading gossip that the Princess’s sheets did not hang from the windows the day after her wedding. I. Will. Not. Allow the Princess of Dol Amroth to be branded a whore!”

Amrothos jumps to his feet, ready to put Elphir in his place. However, the room is saved from witnessing a brawl between the brothers by Imrahil’s short fuse.

“SIT. DOWN.” He shouts, and Éomer now observes the temper so many have spoken of. “Let us move on. I feel that my daughter will do what is expected of her.” Imrahil holds up a hand to silence his warring sons, “Let us move onto more pressing matters.”

……………………………………………………………

Seven hours. Seven hours Éomer sits listening to the squabbling of his advisors and future family as they argue over everything from trade disputes, to what flowers will be decorating the hall tomorrow. When finally, every discussion has been had, Éomer is left alone in the quiet of his study to work through his usual duties before dinner.

A knock draws his attention from the paperwork and without waiting, Gamling enters the room.

“My lord,” he says with an overly flourished bow, “is it safe to enter?”

“No.” Éomer says before laughing and pouring two glasses of something strong, handing one to his friend when he sits opposite, “How fares the Westfold?”

“All at peace for now. We purged the remaining Dunlendings but still many farms were ransacked. It will take a vast number of supplies and many hours until they are back in working order and their owners no longer in tents.”

Éomer sighs and presses the heel of his palm into his right eye.

“When this wedding is over, we’ll ride out and take what we can. I’ll need you to…”

“Éomer. Worry not for now. We have left capable riders to watch over the farms and their families while you…you get to know your new bride.” Gamling says, finishing off with a wink.

“Ah yes. My new bride.” Éomer says, releasing the pressure on his eye, “A bride who I am not able to speak to until we say ‘I do’.”

Gamling scoffs and takes a swig of his drink, “Gondorian’s. So proper.”

“Béma, I wish Eowyn had arrived today.” Éomer sighs, shaking his head.

“Perhaps it is good she arrives in the morning…can you imagine the arguments between her and Alma over the last-minute preparations? I am not sure Meduseld could’ve withstood.”

Both men laugh but Gamling can see that the humour does not reach his friends eyes.

“Go on.” He says gesturing his glass towards Éomer, who starts as if to question his friend but quickly decides to drop pretences.

“Have you ever been to a wedding in Gondor, Gamling?” The king asks while inspecting his glass like it holds the answers to his questions.

“I have not.”

“Well…I have just learnt, that the morning after my wedding, I am to hang my bedsheets from the highest window in Meduseld.” Éomer sighs, closing his eyes and rubbing his head once again. When he does not get a response from the man opposite, he opens an eye to see confusion on his friend’s face, “To…prove that the Princess was indeed a…virgin.”

“Ah.” Gamling says, clearing his throat, “And…you’re not sure…she is?”

Éomer gives a humourless laugh.

“It would actually make this whole affair less awkward if she weren’t. No, Gamling, this entire thing is beyond my every experience. We’ve only just met and are expected to…” Éomer trails off as he becomes aggravated, unsure about how to best get his meaning across. He’s never been one for talking about feelings. Sensing fallout from his friend’s temper, Gamling jumps to try and soothe his fears.

“Well, what about that beauty in West Emnet after the raids…or! That lovely tavern owner in Snowbourn. You did not know them before you…” Gamling trails off and gestures with his hands before continuing, “…oh and I heard you utter but a word to the farmer’s daughter in Limlight before you disappeared for the night. And morning. And then night again…”

“Your point?” Éomer sighs, confused.

“All I am saying, is that you have never had any troubles…when…in battle. From what I hear you’re quite the soldier.” Gamling laughs, tipping his glass to Éomer and watching as realisation grows across his features.

“Gamling, I am not worried about…going into battle. My spear has never seen me wrong.” He says with a childish grin before becoming serious again, “But this is the woman whom I am to spend the rest of my life with. The woman who is to bare my children…what if I don’t…like her?”

Gamling sighs and places his glass onto the desk, leaning forward in thought, “There is something far, far worse my friend.”

Éomer leans forward on the table, meeting his friend’s serious expression with a sombre one of his own.

“What if, you like her…but she cannot stand you?”

Éomer sits back with a thud when Gamling erupts with laughter, downing the rest of his drink. Deep down, Éomer knows his friend is only teasing with the hope of lightening his mood, however it does but the opposite. He gives his friend a smile and a weak laugh while on the inside, his stomach is in knots.

……………………………………………………………

Lothíriel sits listening to her brothers and father argue.

Like an exciting game of Polo, her eyes flit between them as they shout and interrupt one another, almost making her dizzy. Ferne pokes her head into the family suite and Lothi urges her over. As she sits next to her mistress, they link arms and both watch on in confusion.

“What topic are we on now?” Ferne asks as Lothi leans forward, hoping having her ears closer to the chaos will make their squabble clearer.

“So, they have moved on from Erchirion’s horror at being made to sit at the end of the top table, to Amrothos arguing that he does not need to be on the top table at all.” She answers, causing her handmaid to giggle.

“At least they’re making sense now…earlier Prince Elphir almost fainted while shouting about sheets and windows!” Ferne supplies once calm. Her intrigue into the argument before them means she misses the uncomfortable half smile of her mistress.

Suddenly, Amrothos tackles Elphir, only to be jumped on by Erchirion who tries to pull them apart. They collide into a wardrobe and then fall onto a small table, causing splinters to fly off in different directions.

“Perhaps we should move to your suite, my lady.” Ferne comments loudly over the arguing, “It wouldn’t do to receive a chip of wood to the face before your day.”

As two young women leave Prince Imrahil’s rooms, he gives them a small, exhausted wave before pouring himself a large glass of wine. They’re followed closely by the Princess’s ladies in waiting who trail behind them gossiping and snickering about her brothers and their hosts.

“Hens, hens, hens.” Lothi whispers, fed up of being followed around by so many women, who are just waiting for her to slip up and embarrass the House of Dol Amroth. Before they reach her suite, Ferne halts the precession abruptly. Causing the others to collide into them.

“So sorry my lady.” One of the women apologies, “Please forgive me Princess.” Other’s gasp.

“It is fine ladies, no harm done.” She answers and waves off their concern, caring more about why she was stopped so quickly in the first place. Ferne jerks Lothi’s arm and points silently to the corridor in front of them. At the end of the T shaped hallway are Éomer and Gamling; far enough away as to not be alerted to their group of onlookers.

“He really is very tall.” Ferne whispers, adding on a quick ‘my lady’ when one of the other women smacks her arm.

“He is Rohirrim, they usually are very tall.” Lothi mumbles back, entranced by watching her future husband without his knowledge. People only truly show themselves when they think they are not being inspected or judged…something Lothíriel has almost no experience with.

But watching him, she can tell that the Marshal is really a friend and not only here to serve. Like Ferne, she muses to herself and thinks how strange it is that he’s so relaxed. Out in the open as he is.

“He is not…unpleasing, to the eye.” Lothíriel whispers, raking her eyes down his broad shoulders and strong arms. Finally, her gaze hovers over one of his hand’s which rests on the hilt of his sword. A sword that is considerably bigger than Theodred’s.

Lothíriel couldn’t care less for weapons. She’d made many jokes to Eowyn over the last few months saying if she had fought in the Ring War, she would have certainly died by her own sword. And that she’d welcome death, knowing how humiliating it’d be to be found on the battlefield impaled by one’s own weapon. At the time they had shared many laughs over her inability to lift a weapon, but now all she feels is sick.

“You’ve gone pale…are you alright?” Ferne asks her quietly as to not draw attention from the others.

“Did…do you know what happens at a Rohirrim wedding, Ferne? When you marry a member of the éored or army.” She responds, realising straight away that Ferne probably does not, “His new bride must lift his sword and cut through a ribbon.”

“A ribbon?”

“A…a ridiculous tra..tradition which is su..supposed to signify the cutting of my former ties…” Lothíriel struggles to explain as she feels her heart beginning to beat erratically fast.

“Sounds a bit…phallic if you ask me.” Ferne says, breaking out into a giggle.

“I won’t be able to lift it.” Lothíriel says, feeling panic surge through her body at the very prospect of failing in front of so many people, “Ferne…I…I can’t lift that. I won’t…everyone will be watching…”

Ferne snaps her attention to her mistress as the grip on her arm becomes painfully uncomfortable.

“It’s okay, my lady, don’t…I…” Ferne tries to speak softly but Lothíriel cannot hear it. Watching her descend into panic is enough to send Ferne into it herself.

“My lady?” Lothi hears from behind her but everything is becoming very hard to hear as she slides down the wall, hugging her knees to her chest. Tears streaming freely from her eyes without warning.

……………………………………………………………

Éomer is discussing the predicament Erkenbrand has found himself in with one of Meduseld’s cooks. Gamling was just explaining how their friend now has a spoon shaped burn somewhere very private, when a lot of hushing and feminine gasps pull his attention from the story.

Down the hallway is what looks like a group of Gondorian ladies gathered in a circle with their backs to him, looking down at the floor. All of a sudden, one of the younger ladies’ flies down the corridor towards and past him without a word.

“Perhaps someone saw a mouse.” Gamling laughs but Éomer isn’t so easily convinced. He walks slowly over to the women and, using his distinctive height as an advantage, manages to see what they’re looking at on the floor. Down by their feet is the Princess of Dol Almoth, red faced and gasping for breath. She has her knees up by her chest and is sitting against the wall with her handmaid trying to get her to slow down her breathing.

“My lord!” one of the lady’s gasp and instantly everyone is silent but Lothíriel and Ferne. It takes a second for the scene to register but as soon as it clicks, Éomer bend to put an arm underneath the princess’s legs and one round her back, lifting her into his arms. He jerks his head at Ferne, silently telling her to follow, and storms down the corridor on the way to her suite.

“They are to wait.” Éomer commands to Gamling as he passes and poor Gamling has to throw himself in front of the other ladies as they try to follow. Éomer can hear Gamling’s booming voice, the one he usually reserves for the éored, telling them to “STOP” before cries and shrieks fill the hallways.

“I don’t think those women have ever listened so quickly.” Ferne comments as she rushes after the long strides of the King, picking up her skirts so not to trip.

Éomer hears the comment but does not answer. Instead his mind is in battle mode, currently planning the best way he can tackle the problem presented to him. He’s no stranger to bouts of panic, suffering greatly with them as a child after the death of his parents. But its been many years since an attack has plagued him so badly that he needed another’s assistance in calming down.

When they reach the princess’s suite, Ferne lets them in and slams the door.

“Lock it.” Éomer snaps as he seats Lothíriel in a comfy chair, pushing the small table aside and kneeling at her feet. Ferne hesitates but makes the decision to trust that she will not find herself in trouble once this is over. Locking herself, the princess and the king into a room together would be seen as highly inappropriate in most civilised company.

For a few seconds, Éomer looks over Lothíriel as he would someone injured in battle. He searches for wounds or bumps, anything that needs patching. When he finds none, he turns his attention to the princess’s breathing. Éomer runs his hands down her arms and turns her palms to face upwards in her lap, placing his fingers on her pulse and is own pulse over her fingertips.

“What happened?” he asks Ferne sternly, making her jump.

“She, um, we stopped because, well, we saw you…and she said…um…” Ferne stutters, overwhelmed.

“Calm yourself, girl.” Éomer snaps and instantly regrets his harsh tone when he sees tears brimming in her eyes. The last thing he needs is a collapsed princess and a crying handmaid, he’d rather a heard of oliphaunts. Béma how he wishes he’d left his study just a few minutes earlier, or later, and avoided this whole mess.

“D…don’…” Lothíriel gasps and raises her head, “…don’…shout at…her…”

Éomer’s attentions return to the princess when she manages to spit out a few broken words aimed at his him and his treatment of her handmaid. He knows he barely conceals his annoyance when the princess raises her eyebrows at him, a silent challenge to question her order.

“Breathe, my lady.” Éomer says, trying his best to be gentle but by the princess’s flinch he can tell he’s failed. He takes a breath himself and pushes gently on her pulse to feel it better. “Try to breathe with me.” He says with a softer tone, “Feel my heartbeat…try to mirror it.”

As he slows his breathing for the princess to match, Éomer takes note of how delicate her wrists are and how flawless her skin. His skin is hardened, scarred from battle and a far warmer shade from his time in the sun. He imagines the Rohirrim seem like beasts to the people of Gondor, or at very least the men. Women from Gondor are more akin to Elves, delicate and almost otherworldly.

Even so, Éomer has never really found the women of Gondor as attractive, being more turned off by their constant scowls and stares at the ‘barbarians’ of Rohan. However, here in this room, face to face with this Gondorian princess, he sees the beauty that many have spoken of.

Her cheeks are flushed and her rosy lips parted as she takes in small, silent breathes and Éomer watches as her long eyelashes flutter, gently kissing the skin underneath her eyes. Unlike the other highborn women of Gondor he’s seen, Lothíriel doesn’t seem to wear a lot of make-up and Éomer spends a moment taking in every freckle that adorns her face and neck.

……………………………………………………………

It takes almost no time at all for Éomer to help slow Lothíriel’s breathing enough that she no longer feels like she might faint. She’d like to say the feeling of the king’s pulse underneath her fingertips and his coaching are what brings her back from the brink of darkness but really, it’s the distraction.

The distraction of his skin on hers. Of being touched by his calloused yet gentle hands. The shock of seeing how large those hands actually are in comparison to her own is enough to help her forget that she was in fact struggling to breathe at.

For a moment Lothíriel feels calm.

Shen senses that her and Éomer are in fact doing the same thing. Taking in every speck, every line, every small detail that makes up the others appearance. She feels the corner of her lips twitch at the fact that even though his frown is gone, the lines seem etched onto his forehead.

She looks into the eyes of the man she will tomorrow call husband and for the briefest moment, she is unafraid. Perhaps the king doesn’t differ too much from his cousin after all. A young man who radiated gentleness and grace. Who after every, albeit brief, meeting left her feeling calm and at peace with her duties as Princess and soon, Queen.

“Than…” Lothi starts, trying to thank the king for his help but her voice comes out strained and croaky.

“Water!” Éomer demands of Ferne and upon seeing her friend jump to comply, she abruptly stands. Knocking Éomer backwards. She looks at the king’s shocked expression and scolds herself for thinking he could ever have been as soft as his cousin. Apparently the only way he can express his concern or ask for help is through bellowing.

Lothíriel accepts the glass of water from her handmaid and drinks while Éomer scrabbles to stand up, his scowl firmly back in place. When she’s finished and the glass handed back, she straightens her posture and pulls back her shoulders. The epitome of a noble lady.

“I thank you, my lord, for your assistance but seeing as I am now well, it would probably be wise to exit the royal chambers before you give others even further cause to gossip.” She says, linking arms with Ferne and walking her into the adjoining room.

……………………………………………………………

Éomer scoffs, gritting out a tense “My lady” before unlocking and wrenching open the door. As he does, multiple ladies flood into the room, only to be shoved out of the way when he growls and storms down the hall. He’s quickly approached by Alma.

“Oh! My lord,” She says, gasping for breath and holding onto his arm, “I came as quickly as I could. One of the Princess’s ladies in waiting came hollering into the kitchen asking for help and Rogun sprinted as fast as he could to me in the gardens. Of course, you know how my knees aren’t quite what they used to be, but I…”

“The Princess was momentarily struck with panic but worry not Alma, her nose has returned to its glorious position, high above the rest of us.” Éomer snaps, wanting nothing more than to go toe to toe with an armoured dummy in the training ground. He attempts to leave the interaction but Alma holds on tightly to his arm and as mad as he may be, he is not about to drag his housekeeper off her feet.

“I must say my lord, you’re being very…judgemental.” Alma says, unafraid of her master’s foul temper.

“Must you say, Alma. Must you always say?” Éomer snarls but again the older woman is unflinching.

Instead she squares her shoulders and places her hands firmly on her hips.

“I do hope you didn’t show the Princess that temper of yours. We’ll be lucky if she makes it the night if you did. Some of the staff already have a wager on when she’ll steal a horse and head for the hills. Now,” She snaps back and points her finger to his chest, “I know the war hit you hard. Béma knows it hit us all…” Alma swallows down the rise of emotion in her voice, allowing the tears to well in her eyes but not fall. She shakes her head and tries to walk away, dismissing him with a wave of her hand, however Éomer quickly catches it.

“I apologise, Alma.” Éomer says gently, kissing her hand and giving her a cheeky, still completely sincere, smile. His housekeeper snatches her hand back with a laugh and lightly smacks his arm.

“You always were a charmer, my lord but I fear that might not be enough this time!” She laughs, “Go to the young lady and just _speak_ with her. Find some common ground. You want to get off on as good’a foot as possible after all.”

Éomer sighs and puts an arm around Alma, walking her up the hallway.

“Ahh yes but Alma, it is not proper for a Gondorian lady to spend time while unwedded, with a Rohirriam barbarian such as I.” He says with a mocking flourish of his arm.

“My lord, I was once a bride. Be it many, many years ago…” Alma laughs and hushes Éomer when he goes to speak, “SO let me tell you this. That girl is scared. I’d known my Addam for years before we wed but, the night before! Let me tell you, I had one foot out the door. Well…window.”

When the pair reach the kitchen Éomer gives Alma’s shoulder a light squeeze before letting go.

“Now if _I_ were going to arrange a secret meeting, I might slip a message to that little handmaiden of hers. And if it were in fact me trying to get this message into the right hands, I’d ask an old friend, a mother figure if you will, to make sure it reaches her.” Alma says quietly to the young king, who bends to give her a quick kiss on the cheek and a wink, before leaving the situation in her capable hands.


	3. Chapter 3

Hi all! Not a chapter but just a quick note to say I will be updating soon.  
Unfortunately I'm not well at the moment but haven't forgotten about these stories.

I hope some of you stick around! :)


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